“Bee-ing in Love”
There were in a tree a girl and boy bee.
Their wings were humming contentedly.
Their love was wondrous, warm, and new
The hands they held were more than two.
While love was what they mooned about,
The boy bee felt a buzz of doubt.
“Would you love me if I had no wings?
Or if I could not give you things?
What if I lost my stripes or stinger?
Would you stay or would you linger?”
She softly hummed her buzzed reply:
“I love you bee’cause you always try.
You think you are not brave or strong,
But even so, we get along.
You're sometimes sad, but often funny.
You take the time to call me honey.”
The boy bee felt relief, but then
His inner buzz spoke up again.
“But would you love me first or third
Were I a spider, ant, or bird?”
Her buzz was soft as velvet when
She said, “Were you a fox or hen
Or cow or bear or frog or pig
It wouldn’t matter, not one fig.”
“But think of this,” was his reply,
“I’ll grow so old I cannot fly.”
She spoke with words of soft confiding,
No small degree of gentle chiding.
“When next to you, I can just bee
Sitting beside you in this tree.
Why do you worry about such things?
When you can’t fly, I’ll be your wings.
Sure as my stripes are gold and black,
You’ll always love. I will love back.
His hands withdrew, his wings went still.
He smiled and buzzed, “I know you will.”
There were in a tree a girl and boy bee.
Their wings were humming contentedly.
Their love was wondrous, warm, and new
The hands they held were more than two.
While love was what they mooned about,
The boy bee felt a buzz of doubt.
“Would you love me if I had no wings?
Or if I could not give you things?
What if I lost my stripes or stinger?
Would you stay or would you linger?”
She softly hummed her buzzed reply:
“I love you bee’cause you always try.
You think you are not brave or strong,
But even so, we get along.
You're sometimes sad, but often funny.
You take the time to call me honey.”
The boy bee felt relief, but then
His inner buzz spoke up again.
“But would you love me first or third
Were I a spider, ant, or bird?”
Her buzz was soft as velvet when
She said, “Were you a fox or hen
Or cow or bear or frog or pig
It wouldn’t matter, not one fig.”
“But think of this,” was his reply,
“I’ll grow so old I cannot fly.”
She spoke with words of soft confiding,
No small degree of gentle chiding.
“When next to you, I can just bee
Sitting beside you in this tree.
Why do you worry about such things?
When you can’t fly, I’ll be your wings.
Sure as my stripes are gold and black,
You’ll always love. I will love back.
His hands withdrew, his wings went still.
He smiled and buzzed, “I know you will.”
Dr. Paul “Spike” Wilson is a poet, playwright, stage director, and theatre scholar. He is the Artistic Director of Page & Stage Co. (a theatre-for-literacy organization) and co-founder of the True Names Initiative for Drama Therapy and Social Action. His other works include a cycle of Christian-Zen poems and an anthology of literacy plays called The Peanut Gallery. Visit him at pageandstageco.org.
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